We shall conclude with one more passage, in which the man who filled so large a space in the public eye--whose eloquence placed him on the highest pedestal of fame, and whose writings have charmed by their richness and beauty so many thousand readers--is exhibited in a light more attractive and enduring than the highest human attainments are able to bestow. Mr. Wirt looked far beyond the narrow bounds of earth for his reward. He saw that neither wealth, nor power, nor fame, could satisfy the immortal cravings of the mind--and he lifted up his thoughtful eye to another and more permanent state of being. "Lastly, he was a zealous and faithful christian. In such a mind as his, so inquiring, so masterly, so discriminating, religion was the child of his judgment, not the creation of his passion. It was an earnest, abiding sense of truth, and showed itself in daily exercise and constant acknowledgment. With the sublime system of revelation resting ever in his thoughts, the christian law hung like a tablet upon his breast, and duty ever pointed her finger to the sculptured commands that were graven there to serve him as a manual of practice. He loved old forms and old opinions, and, with something like a patriarch's reverence, he headed his little family flock on their Sunday walks to church: morning and evening he gathered them together, and on bended knee, invoked his Father's blessing on his household; and at the daily meal bowed his calm and prophet-like figure over the family repast, to ask that grace of the Deity, on which his heart rested with its liveliest hope, and to express that thankfulness which filled and engrossed his soul. Such was this man in the retirement of his domestic hearth, and thus did his affections, in that little precinct, bloom with the daily increasing virtues of love of family, of friends, of his country and of his God." We hope that Mr. Kennedy's discourse will be extensively circulated and read. We confess that we rose from its perusal much wiser, better, and happier than before. It not only gave play to the imagination, but it distilled precious dews of thought and feeling, the memory of which is still delightful. A LETTER TO HIS COUNTRYMEN. By J. Fenimore Cooper.--_New York: John Wiley._ 1834.